Atonement
by sovandeprins
Summary: CD/AU Pastor Orlov was his guiding light through his confusing youth, his stepping stone towards the divinity he was destined to gain. But, within light – darkness can linger. Sometimes, the path towards godhood doesn't appear so straight forward and right as perhaps it should. Cyrus gets his first brush with death in the form of a small, helpless fletching. [Complete]


Atonement

Just past hour seventeen, **Father Orlov** requested for his presence at church. A demand that wasn't _uncommon_, nor _unexpected_ – however, to ask for his attendance during the weekend was sat in the realm as _out of the ordinary_.  
-Yet it is a request Cyrus wouldn't ignore or question. Whatever Father Orlov _wished_ of him, it most certainly was _**worth**__**his**__**time**_. More than to linger within his family home – coped up in his bedroom to rehearse speeches he already **knew** _word_ for _word_, or to repeat practices of _languages_ he felt confident enough to write without a hitch.

(_**Speaking**_ _them was another matter entirely_.)

Regardless, the dress shoes he adorned (_a fashion choice influenced by his mother's demand – for an __**Akagi**__ must present himself in the best way possible, even when guests aren't present to see_) carried a modest _heel_ that **clicked** rhythmically against the stone tiling of which spanned the church halls. A heel that gave him _height_, which was something he rather **enjoyed** – _because at age __**fourteen**__ he had yet to hit his growth spurt that would place him above the average_.

(_In this moment, he stood at a meek 1,60cm. The heels of his shoes, however, offered him an additional two centimeters_.)

Down halls he knew as though it was his own home, Cyrus carried himself with shoulders _pulled back_ and steps that _betrayed_ the **tingling** within his stomach as a restless knot. For he was _anxious_ to know what Father Orlov may desire of him – _his reasoning's to request for his presence_. It must be a task that had just come forward now, or else he would've been given it during mass just the previous day.

Or, perhaps he just wanted him around – _a prospect Cyrus wasn't opposed to_.

On Saturdays, the church laid mostly _bare_ save for those that carried the title of **divinity**. And though Orlov was a _minor_ such figure within his ranks – _a youth's pastor that took care of the children and teens in a separate building just west of the church_ – he still held **status** like all the others.  
-_In Cyrus's eyes, even more so_. Perhaps because he wanted to follow in the older man's footsteps, to one day become the assigned Pastor to lead the youths back into the faith that seemed to lack _presence_ for each day that passed. Too many youths littered the streets of Hearthome these days – _lost in what their purpose in life may be_, leading to less than **appropriate** activities taking place.

… Perhaps because Orlov saw him as an _equal_, if not **more**.

It tickled an ego that still sat in its infancy – a _smoldering_ _**flame**_ in need of careful attention, so that it could be given the chance to **manifest** into something _greater_.

(_But that would come in due time, certainly_.)

Movement of a _different_ set of footsteps reached his ears, stilling his own, and though it was a door he already passed – _Cyrus turned and look back towards it_. The heavy door carved out of wood, _engraved with such finesse and bejeweled with intricate designs_, stood ajar. The light of the evening sun spilling past the cracks like **liquid** **gold**.  
-Within, _shadows_ were cast as the man inside moved before the windows lining the adjacent wall. And though Cyrus had _no_ _way_ of truly knowing – _very well could've disturbed __**another**__ Pastor within the church that he held no personal connection to_, something within him told him that this?

This was _Orlov_. **Father Orlov**, who was _pacing_ one of the studies not often shared by those younger – _awaiting his arrival in a fashion that read as rather __**impatient**_.

Not one to disappoint, Cyrus rolled his knuckles against the door to signal his arrival – pushed at it, to better look inside. Father Orlov, dressed in the _typical_ fashion of the pastors within Hearthome (_a hand dyed __**cassock**__, to be exact – made out of wool but occasionally out of lighter such material, given the shifting seasons_), barely seemed to react to his presence – until he raised a hand to motion him forward.  
-_Deeper into the room_, and Cyrus took _care_ in fully closing the door behind him as he followed the pastors calling.

Moments passed in silence, or something imitating such calm. For in reality, the faint _flutter_ of **feathers** made themselves known – _the gentle scraping of a broken beak against wooden boards_.

The young boy's eyes fell on the desk placed in the middle of the room, supposedly previously housing _chairs_ to be seated at yet they were _nowhere to be found_ in this given moment. From where he stood, just to the right of Orlov towering frame, all that Cyrus could make out was a _silhouette_.  
-A **dark mass** overshadowed by the light pouring in from the stained glass windows.

"I have come to realize something very important, my _dear_ Cyrus." Father Orlov's voice broke the serenity of the scene – but if you asked _Cyrus_, then he would say it added to the **sanctity** of it all. For when Orlov spoke, _you ought to listen_.  
-The older man began his pace, shifting his feet until he stood before the table displaying… _whatever it may be_. Hands, **lacing** together at the small of his back.

"… **They** do not speak to you, hear your prayers," words that _stung_ **harsher** than they ever held a right to. Cyrus physically _flinched_. Hung his head in _shame_ for truly – _that was what he felt_. Yet Orlov continued; "But I now know _why_."

A bated breath – _held within his throat for he __**dare**__ not make a sound_.

"**They are testing you**."

Once more, Cyrus was beckoned forward. Orlov's right hand, outstretched for him and perhaps to anyone else, the motion would've meant little.  
-But to him, it meant _everything_.

Down on his knees before the pastor, he went. Taking care in pulling the leg of his pants up as to not _stretch_ the material beyond repair – and before he was fully seated, Orlov's palm found its way to his cheek. _Cradled_ it between the dip of finger and thumb, smoothing over unblemished skin spared from the haunting _blemishes_ that came along with certain puberty.

… Forever and always, in these moments of devotion – _Father Orlov radiated like the sun upon the sky above him_. For with **golden locks** and eyes that _burned_ like **amber**, _no other light could guide him through the process of becoming something more_.

_Someone_ more.

_**-Something out of this world**_.

Finally, after a _breathless_ pause – _words spill past his lips_. Dry, _hungry_ and with a _pitch_ that **lacked** maturity. "_Testing me_?"

Orlov **smiled** in that peculiar way that caused _lines_ to form over his cheeks – _aging him beyond his given years_. "Yes, Cyrus. They _doubt_ your devotion to the name of He who created this world. **Arceus** must be _displeased_ with you, my boy."

_**Ice**__ sunk into the pit of his stomach_.

"… But I know something that may change His mind." The soft pad of a thumb against his cheekbone – _a __**brush**__ of feathered wings_, followed with the sound of an _equal_ such description. Once more, Cyrus's eyes divert to the shape upon the nearby table.

_His throat felt thick_.

"You trust my _judgement_, don't you?"

"… _I do_."

Cyrus had been left with one task, and _one task alone_. With _instructions_ to guide him, but with choices to make – _that he was left on his own was show enough that whatever he may do, __**Father Orlov need not see**_. What _decision_ was reached was one to be shared by _him_ and **Arceus** alone, and by _no other_.  
-Still, something _numbed_ the tips of his fingers and locked their bones as he stared at the **Starly**, but a few month old certainly, _meekly_ struggling against the nails that had been driven into the junctions of its wings. To keep it _bound_ was one thing.

To _**crucify**_ it, another.

"A test of _devotion_, of _faith_," the young boy mumbled under his breath – something he would've been _scolded_ for, has he been anything but **alone** in this moment. (_And though perhaps he shouldn't be – should feel as though Arceus and his favored children are with him in every breath he takes; Cyrus cannot confess to feeling as though that's the truth. For it is as Orlov had said.  
-His prayers, as they were, have never been answered_.)

(_He was __**alone**_.)

Cyrus rounded the table so that the light cast past stained glass windows would least blind him for his choice.  
-_For one had to be made_.

To _sever the head_ of Starly's was a practice he had read in scriptures as well as having seen drawn imagery of the very task. However, the practice had long since been **banned** as it was seen as rather _cruel_ to breed the young creatures for such things – _no matter if the purpose was __**religious**__ or not_. Where Orlov may have gotten the bird was a question that lingered within his mind.

_But not one he would dwell on for long_.

Tentatively, almost as though just simply _touching_ the creature would harm it, Cyrus let his finger brush over plush feathers that had yet to fully evolve into their proper, fine state. To be this close to one of the wild beings children used for **battling** was an opportunity he had had few times in his life – his father, having seen it an _unbefitting_ a man such as himself to play in the dirt with those less fortunate.  
-_He didn't feel like he had missed out on anything_, however. It did not fit his view of '_fun_'.

Still, a soothing motion began. The palm of his hand, spreading over the span of the birds back – _the tips of his fingers getting __**lost**__ within its coat the deeper he dug_. At times, it would _twitch_ – make it known that it still very much was _**alive**_.  
Had a _heartbeat_, a _**soul**_. _A mind intelligent enough to understand the speech of humans_.

Repeating the motion once more, Cyrus would stop at the dip of its neck. A clear indicator where the _width_ of the bird narrowed, _dipped_, and became much more **fragile**. As he felt for the _throat_ beneath the feathered coat – _the words of Orlov repeated within his mind_.

(_At his side, a __**dagger**__ laid polished and bare_.)

-"_Either you use your bare hands – to __**break**__ the fledgling's neck and have its head twisted free of its body – or by the use of the __**blade**__ being pushed into the juncture between the bird's __**throat**__ and __**breast**__._"

At first, he had been unsure if it _truly_ was asked of him to **kill** such a pitiful creature. It seemed unaware, yet distressed – _broken_ – unusually _quiet_ and **weak** for a bird so common to the outside world. Yet the nails stuck into its wings (_clipped, he would guess_) had left stains upon its coat that undoubtable was _blood_.  
-Already **cruel**, and in the end perhaps it was a _blessing_ for it to _**die**_.

After a moment of silence, he would **pray**. _Just as all good sons of Arceus should_, and asked for an _answer_ for which means he should take this birds life with. But, as had become common (_and he certainly had expected no less_) – **he got on answer**. And so Cyrus moved forward without guidance – _tested_ the stability of linking his fingers around its throat only to find the motion to build a **sickness** within his gut. The _pulse_ of the Starly beat against the pad of his thumb and he _swore_, _would in this moment __**swear**__ Arceus's name if he had to_ – that its heartbeat **quickened** as _fear_ took hold of it.

How cruel, howvery_, very __**cruel**_…

It would seem the _poniard_ would be the best, if not _only_, option.

But even still, as he felt its **weight** within his right palm – _its hilt still __**heated**__ from where Orlov held it moments before_ – the very same _nausea_ filled him. The evening light cast shadows over the bird's small frame, blocked by his own and if he _dared_ to look, then he could've sworn it stared _right back at him_.  
-_Sinister_, **mocking** in its _**delight**_ for it knows that _Cyrus_?

He is _weak_.

_He isn't_ _**worthy**_.

_And thus, he will not kill the bird_.

The dagger slipped from his grasp, falling onto the table with a clear ringing _clang_ that may as well have **echoed** down the hall for all to hear – an_d Cyrus pushed the board holding the bird captive off its resting place_. A _hasty_ such decision he hadn't truly registered – yet followed through with regardless. Took a step _backward_, felt the windowsill **press** against the small of his back and just as quickly, _he __**grasped**__ for it to find stability_.  
-Orlov was at his side again, _as though he never had left him in the first place_. Hands cupping the young boys face to gaze into ocean eyes – and Cyrus felt as though he would get scorched, should he fall under Orlov's judgement in this moment.

"_I can't_," he voiced – _quiet_ and **apologetic**. And as Father came to hold on to his chin – _dip his head back to better stare up at him_, Cyrus gently began shaking his head. Denying, _refuting_; _he hadn't meant to be disobedient_.  
-_He hadn't meant to be __**weak**__, to not do what was asked of him_.

Yet Orlov _hushed_ him. Placed his forehead to rest against his own – and closed his eyes as silence spread around them. The pads of his fingers smoothed over his skin, until they reached the hollows of his cheeks. A hold that was _oh_ so familiar, so _common_, between the two of them.

If it _pained_ him in any way, then Cyrus did not let it be known. And perhaps for that reason, Orlov pressed **harder**.

"You _can_," the pastor would speak, finally. His tone, however, sat _hollow_. "You can, and you will… _Just not on this day_. It's alright my boy, it's _alright_…"

His breath _fanned_ to meet his own, something that caused a coil to **tighten** within Cyrus's gut – _holding on to something different, yet similar, to the __**nausea**__ previously present_. And though he felt lighter, felt _better_, a part of him **knew** that Orlov was not, in fact, _pleased_ with him.  
-He would not hold him in this way, if he was. He would not _stand_ _this_ _close_, would not _dig blunt nails into his skin_ and would not **breathe** as though he needed to force himself to, or else he may _forget_.

Once eyes of gold opens once more, there is a _narrowing_ to their curve. Still, a **smile** _plays_ upon the pastors lips.

A show of his _good will_, his _intentions_, that don't always come through in the most favorable of actions.

"You're not yet worthy of your station, is all. You're still so very _immature_, so **young**… _**so undeserving**_."

Orlov removed himself from his person with one last shake of his palm. To _cast away_ that of which did not please him, and Cyrus found his eyes trail the others path as he rounded the table. To where he had so hastily, so _wrongly_, **discarded** himself of the creature already in harm's way. Discarded himself of the task that would prove him _worthy_.

Cyrus once more felt his limbs lock up as Father Orlov stared down at the _pitiful_ bird – unmoving yet _breathing_ and _very much_ still **alive**. Something passed over the pastors features, his hands cupping before his waistband and his back slightly bent. To better view the Starly upon the floor, as he kicked the board it laid upon to better align with himself.  
-Looking back to Cyrus, he would once more speak.

(_A __**tilt**__ to his voice that display humor, __**mirth**_.)

"I will forgive you _this time_, however. I understand it can be **scary** to take a life as _meaningless_ as this ones."

Under the heel of Orlov's foot, its head crushed.

"… _Go to the study and __**pray**__, Cyrus_."

-He need not be told twice.


End file.
